Absolute
by drunkengarbagecan
Summary: He knew he should have shot himself to begin with. He didn't know what was going to happen to him - if he was going to turn into one of those monsters, wobbling aimlessly down below. He just didn't know. RusAme, Zombie Apocalypse AU.


I really don't know if I like this:l .. DEAL WITH IT.  
And by the way, I didn't exactly edit this, because it's late and I have class at 8 AM, so...

_Fandom:_ Hetalia  
_Pairing:_ Russia/American, etc.  
_Warnings:_ Gore. Homosexuality. Gore. Gore. More gore. More homo stuff.  
_Disclaimer:_ It's not mine so I have to do this so I won't get sued or whatever:(

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**Absolute - 1**

A fur-lined hood of a puffy black jacket - once white, but now overtaken by layers of dried blood and dirt - partially hid the masked face of a young man that had once smiled upon his homeland with pride.

Now, he stared upon it with a blank, weary stare. His pride was holding on with thin strings as he stared down from his perch atop the roof of a large, abandoned house.

It was most likely abandoned even before the plague had happened; when he had sneaked his way into the place, everything had been covered in dust. All that was left was a few broken beer bottles and a pack of bent playing cards. He remembered spending the first two nights playing Solitaire and a lonely, pathetic game of spin the bottle.

Naturally, it literally was him simply spinning an empty beer bottle. Entertainment was rare those days.

During the night, he'd climb his way up those creaky steps and into the bedroom at the end of the hall, to the right. He would sit there, inside the small closet with the door slightly ajar, eyes wide. He would hear scuffing feat and gargled moans from the streets below him as he waited, waited, waited.

They were haunting, the gargling moans. They were quiet enough to drone out if he tried hard enough, yet loud enough that it was impossible to sleep. Even if he could, he wouldn't let himself sleep. He would remind himself every time night fell by staring at his bandaged arm.

The first time he found somewhere he deemed safe enough to let him have him rest, he was woken up by a drawled-out breathe and creaking floorboards. One of those… _things.. _Those.. Those, zombies, had found him in the small bathroom he had thought he locked himself in. It had moved so slowly, limping and fidgeting around and had drool and snot and blood running down its face as it came closer, closer, and he couldn't move. He was paralyzed.

He wasn't fond of dead things that came back to life.

Soon enough, the thing was close enough that it simply growled, baring rotten and bloody teeth, and lunged straight for him. He could do nothing but scream as it sunk its teeth into his forearm.

Luckily enough, that's when he found the strength to grab the living dead thing by its hair and tear it away from him, throwing it on the ground. He had lifted his booted foot up and rammed it into its head over, and over, and over. Blood was splattered everywhere.

And even when he knew it wasn't going to come back, he kept on ramming his boot into the zombie's now nonexistent skull.

Over, and over, and over.

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Alfred has thrown up stomach acid for the next three weeks after the incident. Whenever he found the chance to sneak into an abandoned drug store, he would find whatever he could use as a replacement and find the best hiding spot he could, and replace his dirty bandages while also squeezing out whatever fluid his could. The wound smelled awful, like something he couldn't describe.

For the first two months, his arm was an angry red and a good deal larger that the other.

Every time he changed the bandages, a yellow-red liquid would instantly start leaking out of the open cuts, and he would throw up.

As he got used to it, less of the yellow liquid would seep, and more of a normal-looking red would take its place. He didn't throw up anymore.

Needless to say, he was thankful.

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Sitting atop of the roof, Alfred took off his medical mask and coughed into the bend of his arm.

He knew he should have shot himself to begin with. He didn't know what was going to happen to him - if he was going to turn into one of those monsters, wobbling aimlessly down below. He didn't know if he was carrying this _mutated disease_ in his body. Through his veins, in his bloodstream. He just didn't _know._ But he couldn't just turn the shotgun he held loosely in his hand to himself. He still had his pride, his doubts, his selfishness.

His fear.

The light blue medical mask hung from Alfred's left ear as he coughed one more time. His face shined with natural oils and his hair stuck out in all places.

It was the sixteenth of December, two-thousand and ten.

It's been three years since everything went to shit.

Alfred simply sniffed at the thought and put his mask back on, lifting the gun, aiming, and shooting at a stray zombie that was hobbling along the deserted streets below.

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Ivan perked up at the sound of a gunshot. He picked himself up from his hiding spot - behind a few bushes, underneath a termite-eaten deck - and simply shot at the group of infected individuals in front of him, reloaded, and simply slung the machine gun over his shoulder, carrying the rifle by its sling.

The Russian smiled at his triumph, slightly puffing his chest out with the pride of knowing how good of a shot he was. Years of hunting paid off quite well in times like these, as he continued walking with a slight hop in his step - towards where he heard the loud ring of a shotgun fire.

He fixed the ushanka that was perched on his head as he took his gun from its resting place once more, firing at the nasty, gurgling infected that wobbled towards him.

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That was probably really shitty:(.  
But I would love to know what you thought of it! Leave a review if you want. Anything you want to tell me to improve, or anything, just have at it.  
Except just being plain mean, because that would be extremely ignorant:D.

Thank for reading!


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